


you've been at the top of my wish list

by bucketofrice



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Holiday Shenanigans, christmas 2019, scheming families, tropes galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 16:06:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice
Summary: It’s a week before Christmas, the lights on the tree are twinkling, the fire is roaring and Scott and Tessa are standing in his parents’ entryway across from each other, a branch of mistletoe hanging above their heads. They’re looking at it like it might burst into flames at any minute.





	you've been at the top of my wish list

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyfriday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfriday/gifts).



> Happy holidays, and Merry Christmas!
> 
> Here's a story about meddling families, and Christmas cheer, and mishaps and a whole lot of love. I hope this fic lives up to your expectations, and that I can spread a little cheer. 
> 
> Thank you to two people who shall eventually be named (otherwise this would spoil who I am straightaway) for all your help in talking this through, and thank you to the Crackship Working Group for being such a light in my life. I love you all. <3
> 
> Edit: All my thanks goes to [falsettodrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsettodrop) and [restlessvirtue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlessvirtue) for the edits and encouragement.
> 
> This is set in 2019.
> 
> Title is from "Wrap Me Up In Your Love" by John Legend.

It’s a week before Christmas, the lights on the tree are twinkling, the fire is roaring and Scott and Tessa are standing in his parents’ entryway across from each other, a branch of mistletoe hanging above their heads. They’re looking at it like it might burst into flames at any minute.

_record scratch_

_freeze frame_

You’re probably wondering how they got themselves into this situation.

Well… let’s back up a few days.

 

The first thing Alma does, right after Scott opens the front door of his parents’ house and drops his duffel on the ground, isn’t tell her son “welcome home, Scottie!” or “how was the flight?” or “I’m glad the tour went so well again.” No, Alma Moir, clad in an apron and wielding a rolling pin, comes storming out of the kitchen and jabs him in the chest with it.

“You and Tess had better have brought your skates home,” she says, voice stern, and Scott feels vaguely like he’s six years old again and got caught sneaking a cookie from the jar.

“Well, Merry Christmas to you too,” he says, pushing the rolling pin down gently so he can lean forward to press a kiss to his mother’s cheek.

He’s confused; he and Tessa _always_ bring their skates home, and his mom knows that. He’s a Moir, for crying out loud. Skates are like an extra limb to him.

Alma huffs and pulls back. “I need you for damage control.”

“What?”

“The holiday skate at the rink? Susie Perkins dropped out, and then Jack Simons got a head cold and now his mother wants to take him out too; I think Jess Fitzgerald and little Ethan can’t make it either and we have to shift the nativity forward because the little ones need to go to bed and what I’m saying is—” she stops to take a breath for the first time in what feels like three minutes “—is that I need you and Tess to skate.”

Scott takes a second to process the veritable tidal wave of words that just hit him.

“Not a problem,” he says when he’s distilled it down to the essentials. “We can skate something from the tour, no big deal.”

“That’s the other thing, son.” His mother’s tone has shifted, and he can tell there’s a twist to this whole thing, some unforeseen wrinkle that’s currently causing her brow to furrow.

“Yes?”

“We need you skating to a holiday song.”

“Mom, the skate is in four days.”

“Yes. I’m aware of that.” Alma has re-adopted the exasperated glare he remembers so well from his teenage years, the one he tried to avoid at all costs when he and Danny and Charlie would sneak out to the pond in the back and play hockey without telling her first. Or the one she sported that one time when they drove to the closest lake and Charlie had the brilliant idea of driving his pickup _onto_ the ice.

Lesson learned from that particular journey? His brother is shit at approximating ice thickness and tow truck drivers are required to inform your parents of any hijinks if you’re minors.

He shudders at the memory; they’d all gotten grounded for a solid month.

Back to the holiday skate though, which, once again, is in four days.

_Great. Just great._

Scott takes a breath and gives his mother’s shoulder a squeeze.

“I’m sure we’ll manage something, ma. Don’t worry.”

(He will be worrying soon enough, but he doesn’t know that—yet.)

 

Tessa and Scott are finally back home for the holidays.

Their second self-produced tour had gone off without a hitch, the press junket had been more manageable than the first go-around, and now they’re ready for a few weeks of rest and relaxation before the new year kicks off again. Tessa is due to start her MBA, Scott’s got coaching duties lined up, and they’re both looking to spend some quality time with their own families and each others’ over the holidays, and maybe do a little skating.

Just a nice, peaceful, relaxing Christmas season, free of any pressures or stressors.

Except, it seems, their families have other ideas.

(They really should have expected nothing less, because it’s the Virtues and the Moirs, and if meddling were an Olympic sport, they’d have gold medals in spades.

Heaven knows they’ve tried to work their magic over the years, but Tessa and Scott are nothing if not stubborn, and so, with twenty-two years of partnership under their belt, they’re still firmly in the camp of “best friends and platonic skating partners, emphasis on the _platonic_.”

They’re also conveniently both single and, if you take their families’ word for it, _obviously_ head over heels in love with one another and, well, you get the drift.)

 

Tessa, for her part, seems excited about the whole thing when he tells her that afternoon over coffee. He knows she loves Alma like a second mother and that she’s a sucker for all things cheesy, so he’s not surprised when she immediately pulls out her phone to search Christmas songs on Spotify.

She starts listing options: anything by Michael Bublé, or maybe _Last Christmas_ or _Scott, oh my god, do you remember when you found out Mommy wasn’t_ actually _kissing Santa Claus in that one song?_ (for the record, yes he does, and no, he’s not embarrassed it took him till age sixteen to put that together, _not at_ _all_ ) before she lights up and lets out a delighted squeak.

“I’ve got it!”

“Which one, kiddo?”

It takes about five seconds and one telltale riff and Scott lets out a groan. _Not this, please not this._ But when he looks up, Tessa’s got those puppy dog eyes he has never been able to resist, not ever.

“C’mon, Scott. Mariah is a classic. You can’t argue with a classic.”

Yes he very well could, thank you very much, but it’s Tessa and she seems excited and they’ve barely got any time anyway and there’s a tiny part of him that has to admit that maybe, well maybe, his teenage self had enjoyed that music video… just a little bit (a lot).

“Fine. But let the record state that I was an exceptionally generous and kind and dare I say _gracious_ skating partner in this situation.”

He _will_ bring this up again the next time Tessa suggests anything remotely close to Hall & Oates or _Pride and Prejudice_ for any sort of program.

Tessa laughs. “Noted.”

 

Every year, Scott seems to forget just how packed the Ilderton rink gets in the days before the holiday skate. Well, either he forgets, or he conveniently blocks it out of his memory.

But as he and Tessa take a meagre corner of the ice for themselves the next morning and start working out details of their new skate, he’s reminded of the fact that they are not alone. Not by a long shot. Tiny skaters whizz by them left and right, giggling and whispering about the two new faces who have joined them.

Some of them remember their skate at the Olympics, and he and Tessa dutifully answer questions and sign zip-up hoodies and pose for selfies with the little ones. Scott smiles when a little girl asks for a photo with just Tessa and helps them find their best angle.

They’re trying to take apart old routines and mash up pieces for the holiday skate, and it’s going pretty well until he starts feeling like there’s someone watching them, intently. And it isn’t the little skaters staring at them from all corners of the rink, _oohing_ and _aahing_ when Tessa goes into a goose and makes her axel exit. No, this is intense staring, and he’s feeling a bit judged right about now. He carefully lowers Tessa out of a lift and turns around.

Well then.

It’s Alma and Carol, standing by the boards, waving as he looks over. They’re the picture of innocence, but for some reason Scott has a feeling that something is afoot. And from the looks of Tessa, she does too.

“Is it weird that we've been in front of Olympic judges three times and my own mother’s judgement scares me more?” he asks, guiding her to the boards so they can get a sip of water. “I don’t wanna mess this up, T.”

Tessa laughs. “Well, we'll never hear the end of it if we do.”

“A comforting thought,” he deadpans. He looks over at his mother and they make eye contact. Alma waves, a cheery smile on her face, and leans over to whisper something to Carol. “They’re up to something,” he whispers to Tessa, lest either of them hear from half a rink away. “That’s Alma Moir in scary mode.”

He can see Tessa trying to keep a straight face, and she’s valiant there for about five seconds before she breaks out into giggles. It’s still one of his favourite sounds in the world, when her whole body vibrates with the energy of it and she tries her best to stay composed but the giggles come anyway, like little jingle bells. When her giggles have somewhat subsided, she shakes her head and then skates so she’s half next to him, half in front of him, before sticking her arms out wide.

“Hide behind me,” she whispers, “I’ll block any incoming Moir mom attacks.”

Now it’s Scott’s turn to start laughing, because the image of Tessa, who’s quite a ways smaller than he is, playing human shield is just too much. He spins her around and gathers her up in his arms, squeezing tight. “Thank you for protecting me from my mama.”

She chuckles into his chest, and his heart flutters at the feeling. “Always.”

“Speaking of my mama,” he starts, gently pulling away from her, “we should probably get back to practising before she comes over here and _actually_ yells at us.”

 

That afternoon, he’s untangling a set of baubles that have inexplicably gotten stuck to one another and hands one to Tessa, smiling at her when she takes it. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of his parents’ living room, a box of ornaments in front of him.

It’s the annual Moir Christmas tree decorating session, and somehow Scott, despite his so-called _stone hands_ , has gotten the job to sort out all the baubles and other ornaments this year, and he’s never been gladder for the mug of spiked eggnog that Cara sets down next to him.

Tessa has been a part of the tradition for years now, and he loves that she’s been adopted into his family just as much as he’s been welcomed into hers.

He yearns for the Christmas trees he and Tessa set up in their apartments in Montreal, because Tessa had bought those sets of decorations and actually stored them away in the boxes they came in, all neat and tidy and labelled by shape and colour. Not at all like the mess of handmade ornaments and stray baubles he’s currently sorting through.

He huffs and straightens out his headband. Charlotte has placed a set of reindeer antlers on his head, complete with little bells, and he feels them jingle every time he moves his head a fraction of a degree. Tessa has fared better; she’s wearing a Santa hat (which objectively shouldn’t look _that_ cute on her but to Scott, most everything does) and is currently trying—but failing—to place the star on the top of the tree.

Scott looks back down at his ornaments and wonders briefly why she’d been given that particular job—and not Danny or Charlie or someone equally tall—but his train of thought is interrupted when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Hey, will you help Big Hands with the star?” Danny asks. Scott has currently got a reindeer in one hand and a partridge in another. Both their strings are tangled together in an impossible knot and he wonders idly if anyone in his family is secretly a sailor. “Do one of those fancy lifts of yours.”

He looks up at his brother. This seems wholly unnecessary. He holds up his mess of ornaments, whose knots won’t just magically untie themselves. “Just get someone taller to do it, or get a stepladder. I’m a little busy here.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” Danny’s clearly not backing down. “Or are you telling me you ate too many cookies and you can’t lift her anymore?”

Scott scoffs. _Of course_ he can still lift Tessa, thank you very much.

He’ll show Danny just how well.

“Hey T,” he calls, dropping the reindeer-partridge disaster back in the box. "Hang on, I got ya.”

He’s up on his feet and in two quick strides he’s at Tessa’s side. She shoots him a look. “You’re not that much taller than me, kiddo. I don’t think you can reach either.”

“That’s why I’m gonna lift you.”

“What?”

“Danny over there,” he says, loud enough so his brother is sure to hear, “needs to be proven wrong.”

From Tessa’s facial expression, he gathers she really doesn’t give a shit about what petty disagreement they’re having or what point he needs to prove. She just sighs and rolls her eyes.

“Fine.”

“You’re the best,” he says, and he really truly means it.

Tessa moves so she’s close but standing with her back to him and he takes a deep breath, getting a lungful of her strawberry shampoo. They haven’t skated much since the tour and he’s missed this, missed the closeness and connection. He closes his eyes for a second, lets himself savour the moment and feel the way his breath hits her skin.

“Scott,” she murmurs. It’s low and gravelly, and the tone of her voice makes his skin prickle. It would be so easy to brush her hair over her shoulder and dip down to press his lips against the back of her neck, lavish the skin there and watch her shudder. He quickly checks himself and takes a deep breath.

He’s about to place his hands on her hips and support her for the entry when Quinn comes running into the living room.

“I wanna do the star!” she cries, all high-pitched delight, and just like that, the moment’s gone. Tessa turns around and holds the silver star out to his niece.

“This one? Well I’m sure Uncle Scott can lift you way up high so you can put it right at the tippy top.”

Scott plasters on a smile and crouches down in front of Quinn.

“Of course we can do that. What do you say, Q? Wanna fly?”

 

By the time the tree is decorated, it’s late afternoon, and everyone has sprawled out on the couches and the floor. He’s managed to snag an armchair and Tessa had demurely perched herself on the armrest before he all but tugged her halfway into his lap.

She’s leaning her head on his shoulder and he’s got an arm wrapped around her. He knows what this must look like, because he’s neither blind nor an idiot, but quite frankly, he doesn’t care, because Tessa is warm and snuggled into his side and it’s still the most comforting thing in the world.

That is, until Alma walks into the living room.

“Someone needs to go get more potatoes, and we’re out of milk,” she announces to the room at large, before zeroing in on him. “Scott?”

“I had eggnog!” he protests, only to hear a snort from Charlie’s general direction.

“Yeah, like four hours ago. And it was Cara’s, so it’s weak as hell anyway.”

Someone hisses “little ears” and Cara starts to protest from the corner, feigning indignation at her supposedly weak cocktail.

It’s a cacophony of noise until Alma clears her throat. “Potatoes. Milk. Scott?” She shoots him a pointed glare and his resolve is fading fast. His mother was never one to be argued with. “Oh and Tess,” she adds, sweet as ever, “we’d love to have you stay for dinner.”

Tessa smiles from her perch and Scott sighs. “Anything else you need?”

“Oh, I almost forgot, that one cinnamon blend they only have at the Loblaws in London,” she says, inexplicably looking over at Tessa as she’s speaking. “Thank you.”

He moves to get up, careful not to jostle Tessa too much in the process.

She squeezes his arm. “I’ll come with. Keep you company.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” he says, and he swears he feels his mother smirking at him from the corner. When they leave the living room, Alma and Cara are whispering quietly to each other, sharing conspiratorial glances.

 

They wordlessly bundle up and get into Scott’s truck, cranking the heat up high and turning the radio to Christmas carols. The windows start to defrost a little and he curses the truck’s shoddy heating system, but his Acura is in Montreal, so this drive will be a throwback in more ways than one.

The first leg of the drive is quiet, as they take in the snowy landscape that surrounds them and the stillness of Ilderton’s back roads. The snow is coming down, but not too heavily yet, and Scott hopes they can avoid a blizzard on their way back from the supermarket.

The London Loblaws is packed, just days before Christmas, but they manage to find the potatoes and the milk and then scour the spice aisle in search of Alma’s highly specific cinnamon.

Scott is standing on his tiptoes looking at the top shelf (because surely the most logical thing would be alphabetical organization) while Tessa is crouching down a bit further along, sifting through loose packets of spice blends. She pulls out a packet and shows it to him and he scans the label. He shakes his head.

Not Alma’s cinnamon.

With a sigh, Tessa squats back down and stars on another row of spice blends.

Scott has found everything from cardamom to cloves to curry powder to ground cinnamon and cinnamon sticks, but nothing that matches the highly specific label she’d sent Scott a picture of via text.

Five minutes later, they’ve still got nothing.

“I’m gonna call,” he says, and Tessa nods.

Alma picks up on the first ring, and doesn’t sound at all surprised that Scott’s calling.

“Honey, are you two having a good time?” she asks, and Scott rubs at his temple.

“Mom, we’re in Loblaws a week before Christmas. I wouldn’t describe this as ‘a good time.’”

There are shoppers all around, and more than one little kid whining about chocolate and Scott’s still thinking about the snowfall outside.

“Well, no need to be negative about it,” Alma says. Tessa looks at him, a question in her gaze, and he just shakes his head.

“We can’t find the cinnamon. We’ve looked everywhere and I think they’re out.”

There’s a pause and some rustling before Alma speaks again. “You know what? I just remembered I bought this kind the last time I visited you and Tess in Montreal, at that spice shop. I don’t think they even have it here. I must have forgotten.”

Scott lets out a groan. Tessa pokes his chest and he turns to her, mouthing _they don’t sell it here_ before directing his attention back to his mother. Tessa starts giggling beside him.

“So what do you want us to bring back?”

“Just plain ground cinnamon, son. That’ll be just fine.”

 

The snow is coming down in heavy flurries when they walk to the truck, bags laden with potatoes, milk, cinnamon and chocolate (this is a grocery run with Tessa Virtue, there _will_ be chocolate). Tessa puts the Christmas carols back on and Scott turns up the heat again, and they settle in for the drive back home.

It’s much the same as the drive to Loblaws, but Scott has significantly less visibility on the country roads and he slows the truck down accordingly.

It’s going fine, and Tessa is rattling off the list of Christmas presents he still needs to buy because she keeps a better track of it than he does, when a deer runs into the middle of the road.

Scott swerves.

In retrospect, he swerves a bit too far.

The truck slides at a diagonal. Scott holds his breath. Tessa gasps.

Three seconds later, they’re stuck in a snowdrift.

The deer is still standing in the middle of the road, looking, for a lack of a better term, very much like, well, _a_ _deer in the headlights_.

“Ah, fuck,” is the first thing out of his mouth, followed swiftly by “you okay, T?”

“I’m fine,” she mutters from the passenger seat. “You?”

“I’m good. But,” he tries to press on the gas and move them forward, wincing when the truck lets out a pathetic garbled noise, “I think we’re stuck.”

“Shit.”

“You can say that again.”

“Shit,” she parrots, and Scott has to laugh.

He calls the number for the tow truck and tries not to groan when the voice on the other end of the line tells him it’ll be a good half hour till the truck shows up. Fuck.

Tessa takes the news surprisingly well, pulling out their newly purchased bar of chocolate—which she proudly announces will now serve as their _we’re stuck in a snowdrift_ sustenance—and breaking off a piece. Scott shakes his head and smiles as she burrows herself further into her scarf and curls up in the passenger seat.

He texts his mom that they’re stuck but fine and that she should expect a delay, and then settles into his own seat, pulling down his toque and accepting the chocolate Tessa hands him with a soft smile.

They’re ten minutes into waiting, and he’s about to answer another one of Tessa’s _Inside the Actor’s Studio_ questions when he hears a pop and a fizzle.

Momentarily distracted, he turns to the dash and tries to figure out what just happened. It’s not the ignition, it’s not the lights, it’s not the breaks, it’s … shit. He holds his hand up over the vent by the dashboard. There’s no more hot air coming out.

It’s the heating.

“It’s the heater, isn’t it?” Tessa asks, as if she’s reading his mind, and he groans, letting his forehead fall on the steering wheel. The car horn lets out a drawn out beep and he quickly removes his head, sinking back into the seat instead.

“It’s shot.”

“Shit.”

He tells himself it’s going to be fine, because they’re Canadian, and they’ve spent half their lives in ice rinks, and they should be tougher than this, damn it, but then Tessa starts shivering and all the resolve he ever had crumbles.

“Hang on, I’m coming over there,” he says, ignoring her small sounds of protest, and starts to shift so he can awkwardly climb over the gearshift. He bumps his head on the ceiling and his elbow on the armrest and his knee on the gearshift itself, but eventually, he clamours over and squeezes into the passenger seat with Tessa.

She has to shift so he can fit and he ends up tugging her into his lap, where she sits so they’re facing each other. “Kiddo, you’re freezing,” he says, rubbing his hands up and down her arms in an effort to get her warm.

Her teeth clatter and he pulls her close, hugging her to his chest. He’s always been the one to run warmer of the two of them, and he hopes he can impart even a little bit of body heat to her. She snuggles up against him, and he thinks, not for the first time, that this is his favourite feeling in the whole world, to be wrapped up in Tessa.

(Of course, it’d be that much sweeter if they weren’t stuck in his truck without heat in the middle of a blizzard, but he’ll take what he can get, eh?)

She looks up at him after a few minutes, green eyes wide, and hums. “You’re like a personal furnace,” she mumbles, and he chuckles.

“Glad my body can be of service to you, T.”

She jabs him in the chest. “Very funny, Moir.”

“I try.”

He winks and pinches her arm. She yelps and steels him with a look, clearly plotting her revenge. But then, their eyes meet and it all washes away.

Tessa is right there, eyes wide, lips parted slightly, cheeks pink from the cold. Her gaze flicks from his eyes to his lips and back up again. He gulps. _Could they?_ _Could they_ _actually do this?_ _In his truck, stranded, without another soul in sight?_

She moves forward, barely a millimetre, and Scott takes the leap. He leans forward and their lips are so close, almost touching, and he closes his eyes and—

There’s a knock on the window.

“You guys the ones who need a tow?” a booming voice from outside announces.

Tessa’s forehead falls against his. She groans.

 

Something shifted between them in that truck, Scott thinks as they’re working through a step sequence the next day, and he’s not sure what to make of it.

They drove home in the tow truck in awkward silence, and then both barely spoke to one another throughout dinner. His mom, meanwhile, wouldn’t take her eyes off either of them. Tessa had been clipped in her greeting at the rink that morning, but Scott had shrugged it off and blamed her lack of caffeine.

Now, as they meet again in a Killian hold, he can’t help but notice she’s been … distant … ever since last afternoon. Even his usual joking hadn’t affected her like it usually does, and he’d made sure to ramp it up for effect.

He’d felt it too, when they’d been no more than a hair’s breadth apart, almost kissing, so close to finally giving in. And god, he’d wanted it. So much. He’s never not wanted it, never not wanted her.

His train of thought is interrupted when they finish their run-through and head back to the boards. Alma and Carol are supposed to give them feedback on the skate, and he’s worried by the identical furrow in both their brows.

“It’s good, kids,” Alma says.

Carol hums.

“But don’t you think,” Alma turns to her sister, “that it could use, you know, something _more_ _?_ ”

“More?” He’s confused. What more could they want? They’re using the goose, and the curve lift, and the one where Tessa makes her legs into a triangle and holds herself up on his hips. It’s seasonal, and fun, and festive.

“You know the backwards rotational?” Carol asks. “That could work here, it’s one of my favourites.”

He hears Tessa choke on her water beside him and quickly pats her on the back. Is his aunt suggesting they perform _that_ lift at the holiday skate?

Alma brightens up immediately.

“Yes, that could give it an edge,” she says, and Scott turns crimson.

He looks at Tessa, who’s flushed a similar colour.

What has gotten _into_ them?

He coughs. “Uh, mom, you know this isn’t Carmen, right?”

Alma looks at them, feigning shock.

“Of course not, dears. But that was _such_ a lovely free, you should really think about bringing it back again.”

 

The _Carmen_ lift, blessedly, does not make it into the final version of the program. Their _Long Time Running_ costumes do, because they’re appropriately festive, and Scott gets a Santa hat to complete the outfit.

Before they know it, they’re in the makeshift backstage area of the rink, about to start the hug. Scott holds his arms open just as Alma bursts in, followed closely by one of the mothers of the skaters (at least he assumes, but at this point he can spot a skating parent from miles away, they always have some sort of tell).

“Scott, Tess, we’ve got a situation.”

 _Of course they do._ There isn’t an Ilderton rink holiday skate without some kind of disaster.

“What’s going on?” Tessa says, immediately placing a comforting hand on Alma’s shoulder.

“Tara? Who’s doing the _Jingle Bell Rock_ number?”

They both nod.

“She says she refuses to go on alone, she’s too scared.”

“She’s hidden out in the back of the dressing room, I don’t know what to do,” the woman beside Alma says. She must be Tara’s mom.

“I’ll go out with her,” Scott says, “do the first few bars, and then let her take it from there.”

“And I’ll go talk to her,” Tessa chimes in, “tell her I still get nervous before every skate, that I’m nervous right now. Which I am.” She lets out a self-deprecating chuckle and gives Scott’s hand a squeeze before heading off, Tara’s mom following close behind.

“Thank you,” Alma says, relief evident on her face, and Scott gives his mom a hug.

“Hey, this was us once upon a time. We know what it’s like. But we always had each other, so it was a bit easier.”

Scott swears there’s a tear in the corner of her eye. “You two really did. And you still have each other.”

“Yeah, we do.”

 

Tara does brilliantly, and Scott watches proudly from behind the curtain, Tessa tucked into his side. They’re up next, and when she gives his hand a squeeze before they head out onto the ice, he sees skates from all throughout their lives flash through his mind.

Skating with Tessa is something that will never get old. It’s his favourite thing in the entire world, where he feels most himself, where everything makes sense.

Even when they weren’t talking, or they were messing around without foresight, or they were at their very best, mentally and physically, stepping out on the ice with her was always the best thing in the world. Skating with Tessa is as natural as walking, as talking, as taking a breath, and when the first notes of that damn Mariah Carey song filter through the speakers, he can’t help but hope.

_I just want you for my own_

_More than you could ever know_

_Make my wish come true_

_All I want for Christmas_

_Is you_

Maybe this Christmas, his wish will come true.

 

That night, they all go to the Moirs for hot chocolate to celebrate a successful holiday skate. Tessa comes along, as she does every year, and Scott continues to marvel at how seamlessly she has fit into the fabric of his family over the years.

She jokes with his brothers, shares secrets with his mother, dotes on his nieces and nephews, and banters with his father. He’s fairly convinced she’s his mother’s favourite child. (She’s _his_ favourite too, so he really can’t blame Alma for making the obvious choice.)

It’s like every year, but this year, there’s a crackle between him and Tessa that’s been building for days.

So it shouldn’t surprise him that Alma is watching them like a hawk, and at one point, sends both Scott and Tessa out to the hall to go fetch something. Scott grumbles all the way there, and Tessa looks confused, until they both spot it.

They freeze, and look up, then down, then at each other again.

_record scratch_

_freeze frame_

We’re back at the very beginning.

It’s a week before Christmas, the lights on the tree are twinkling, the fire is roaring and Scott and Tessa are standing in his parents’ entryway across from each other, a branch of mistletoe hanging above their heads. They’re looking at it like it might burst into flames at any minute.

Scott speaks first.

“So,” he says, dumbly, “we’re standing under mistletoe.”

“No shit.”

He clears his throat awkwardly.

“What are we gonna do about it?”

“What do you wanna do about it?” Tessa parrots back, hands on her hips. He knows this Tessa, knows she’s acting like this because she’s nervous and unsure.

He takes a step toward her, enters her space.

“I think you know,” he says, voice gravelly, and he cups her cheek in his hand, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone.

It all makes sense now, all the things his mother told him, all the odd looks, all the weird errands. She was planning this all along. And the mistletoe, well it’s a classic Alma Moir grand finale.

“Your mother did this, didn’t she?”

Scott chuckles. “Yeah. She can be crafty like that.”

He leans down, close enough to feel how his breath makes the hairs on her neck stand up on end. She shivers and her eyes slip shut.

They are so, so close.

Scott’s free hand finds the back of her head, cradling it gently. Her hands have found his back, and she’s latched on tight, as if she’s scared he might disappear if she lets go. He knows the feeling.

He leans down just a fraction more.

“I think all my wishes just came true.”

It’s the last thing he says, right before his lips find hers.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love. <3
> 
> Find me on both [Tumblr](http://good-things-come-in-threes.tumblr.com/%22) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_bucketofrice).


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